


The Lonely Graveyard

by orphan_account



Series: Sheriarty Christmas Oneshots [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, M/M, Snow, graveyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the lonely graveyard he thought of what could have been.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is part six of a Sheriarty Advent/Christmas thing I'm doing, which involves me writing a short oneshot every day about a different prompt (a list of prompts can be found on my tumblr, Mistocho).
> 
> I doubt I'm going to complete these in time, but I can try.
> 
> Prompt: Sharing a coat
> 
> IMPORTANT: This is a sequel to A Time To Spend With Loved Ones, a previous story in this series. (A few people requested it, so I wrote this)

That snowy night on Christmas changed things. He knew not why, but he felt the urge to go back to the grave almost every day. Of course he couldn’t because of his mission to dismantle the criminal network (one of the last reminders he had of the man he loved, and he had to destroy it), but whenever he was in Europe he tried to go to England for an hours, the sole purpose being to mourn.

He only went at night, when stars were desperately trying to twinkle from behind the smoggy clouds. The darkness hid both him and the tears he always shed; no one could know he was alive, let alone crying over _Jim Moriarty’s _death.__

He always left the same thing there, a bouquet of white lilies. They contrasted against the dark stone, like pale skin against onyx hair.

In the lonely graveyard he thought of what could have been. 

They could have been together, together in the world that they made exciting for each other. They could have been together in the world that was dull and mediocre without each other; everything was too simple, too plain, too boring.

That snowy night on Christmas changed things. He knew not why, but he felt the urge to go back to the grave almost every day. Of course he already went often, but he wanted to go even more. Every day he visited the grave, glossy black stone with golden words. He saw that boring doctor there sometimes, and was careful to avoid him, but soon realised the man was coming less and then, with just rare visits.

_It’s ridiculous. How could you ever stop coming to this amazing man’s grave, how could you ever stop honouring the angel who had sacrificed himself for you? How could you be in his presence almost constantly and not fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love? ___

_I did… ___

He once again left crimson roses, always leaving crimson roses; vivid and striking, unlike this boring world. Instead of placing them down straight away, he clutched them tight, knuckles white.

In the lonely graveyard he thought of what could have been.

They could have been together, together in the world that they made exciting for each other. They could have been together in the world that was dull and mediocre without each other; everything was too simple, too plain, too boring.

From these thoughts came guilt, all consuming. _It’s my fault, it’s my fault; it’s because of me he is dead, it’s because of me he is gone. It’s my fault that I am filled with this unfillable emptiness born of love unreturned. It’s me, it’s me, it’s all me. And how could he, the amazing man he is, love someone like me? Too ridiculous to even think about. ___

_If only it weren’t. ___

He realised he was crying.

In the lonely graveyard his head snapped up, for it was not a lonely graveyard after all. Someone stood, quite far away, staring at another grave with crimson roses in their grasp. His breath hitched as he realised the stranger was at his own grave.

His mind sparked into action, deducing who they were and why they were there. _Short, around one meter eighty, male, clear from hair and shoulders, black hair, styled. Head bowed, shoulders shaking slightly. Crying? Emotionally attached, very emotionally attached since it’s been so long since my ‘death’. Red roses, romantic feelings or something else? Most likely something else. Well dressed, cares about appearance and reputation. I probably know them, since no fan or stranger would be this attached. ___

_Who do I know who fits that description? ___

_… ___

_… ___

_…it can’t be. They aren't emotional! I must have deduced something wrong. Review the facts again; short, male, black hair, well dressed, not a stranger… there are no other possible options. ___

_It must be him. It can’t be, but it must be. ___

Almost unconsciously, he took a step forward. And another. And another. Before he knew it, he was running towards the crying man.

He was standing slightly behind him, breathing quickly, face a little flushed. He could hear the quiet, broken sobs from the man in front of him. He became all too aware of the cold air around them, his warm breath, and the shivers from the man before him.

He did it without thinking; wrapping his arms around shoulders and pulling him into his chest. _Real, solid, alive, breathing. It’s really him. It’s really him. _He… Jim let out a small gasp, muffled by the coat and scarf his face was enveloped in.__

“You’re alive, you’re alive. You’re really alive, here. You aren’t dead,” he whispered, burying his head in coal hair, originally styled, sleek, but now ruffled like a child’s would be.

He had been standing there, staring at the dark stone with eyes blurred by tears, when he felt it; something warm wrap around his shoulders and pull him in. He knew that voice anywhere. 

“Sherlock? Y-you’re alive?” 

“Yes. You’re alive too. I wasn’t sure if I could believe it, but you’re here and you’re warm, alive, breathing.” They stood, Sherlock wrapped around Jim like a cocoon, for a long time. There was silence, other than hushed sobs and wind whistling through rows of stones.

He eventually let go, both taking a step back from the other. Their eyes were red rimmed from tears shed. 

“Why were you crying?”

“I wasn’t crying.” Such a blatant lie. “Why were _you _crying?”__

“…I suppose it was because I missed you. Oh, I missed you so much, I never wanted you to die and it felt like it was my fault and it was my fault and I’ve visited this grave every day and you’re here and you’re real and I love you and…” The stream of words flowing from his mouth like rapids stopped as he realised what he had accidentally let slip. “I said the wrong thing, I hate you and I don’t-” Sherlock hushed him with a finger on his lips.

“I love you,” Jim’s eyes widened in disbelief, “but I only discovered it when it was too late; or what I thought was too late.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, dead brown into icy blue. They surged forwards, capturing the other’s lips with their own with a hungry kiss, filled with feelings felt too late. 

“We can’t do this.”

“Of course we can, honey. We’re dead, aren’t we? Who can stop us?” He grinned up at Sherlock, who smirked back. Their lips met again, the kiss gentler and sweeter this time. A gust of wind blew by and Jim shuddered.

“Enjoying this a little too much, are we?”

“Shut up, I’m just cold.” The detective’s coat was soon wrapped around Jim’s shoulders, pinning him to Sherlock’s side. “Quite warm, but not the most conventional way of moving.”

“Oh, be quiet. Or I’ll let you freeze.” They chuckled a little, before walking away from the grave.

The not-so-lonely graveyard made real the thoughts of what could have been.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Have a nice day.


End file.
